I tip my head back and close my eyes. "I'm not most people," I mutter.
His voice is even, flat. "No. You're not."
We sit in silence. Outside, traffic hums past. The bakery sits empty below us, waiting for customers who won't come.
"Why did you come here?" I ask finally. "That night. Why my door?"
"I didn't plan it. I was bleeding. Saw your lights. It was the closest option."
"Lucky me."
"Lucky both of us."
I meet his eyes. "What does that mean?"
"It means you saved my life. In my world, that creates a bond. A debt." The air changes between us. Thins out, crackles…
"I don’t think you were quite at death’s door,” I say it slowly, carefully. “Besides, I don't want anything from you."
"I know. Which is exactly why I'm offering."
My heart is beating too fast. This is the moment. The moment where I should say no, should send him away, should go back to struggling alone rather than accepting help from a man who probably kills people for a living.
Who am I kidding? That’s exactly what he does.
But I'm so tired of struggling. So tired of drowning.
"One week," I say instead. "That was the deal. When you're healed, you go."
"And if I don't want to go?"
The question lands like a stone in water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing everything.
"Why wouldn't you?" I ask, scrubbing my face with my hands.
He leans forward slightly, ignoring the way it must pull at his wounds. "Because maybe I found something worth staying for."
My breath catches. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." He is looking at me with such intensity I feel it in my bones.
"That's insane."
He nods once. "Probably." He doesn't look away when he says it. Doesn't take it back.
And I don't tell him to leave.
The afternoon passes in a strange haze. I go back downstairs to reopen the bakery. More empty hours. More silence. But now there's something else. A heaviness in my chest that might be anticipation, or it might be dread.
At five, I close up early. The day's earnings barely cover the cost of the ingredients used in the goods I’ll have to throw away before tomorrow.
Upstairs, Zakhar has moved to the kitchen table. Still shirtless, still bandaged, but looking stronger. More present.
"You should eat," he says when I enter.
"I'm not hungry,” I counter, moving through the small space with my laptop.
"Lily."
